Midnight Falls: A Thrilling Retelling of Cinderella (3 page)

Ella looked at Marion, baffled by the declaration. Marion promptly explained herself.

“She has nothing, child. Isolda is an old, spoiled child whose time is spent building and burning bridges just for an invitation to tea with whatever diddy is willing to throw her a crumb. And let’s not forget that her ‘marriage of convenience’ is far from convenient for her or her lazy, greasy scoundrel of a husband. Can’t be satisfying to either of them. In fact, I doubt whether they’ve shared the same bed since…”

Marion paused and calculated what appeared to be very important numerical evidence for her argument. Marguerite, a servant who doubled as Ella’s tailor and her jester, entered the dressing room and quickly offered her own solution.

“Since they spawned the two ugly ducklings!”

“Oh, stop it, you! I was onto that one!” Marion spat, clearly displaced by the crudity and spotless timing of her cohort in family gossip. Ella grinned and rolled her eyes, sinfully taking pleasure in Marguerite’s bluntness, as always.

“Good morning, gorgeous,” Marguerite said as she approached Ella and began fumbling with the hem of her long, lavender silk sleeve. Ella was agreeable to Marguerite and her sharp tongue. For, to put it quite plainly, more often than not Marguerite said what Ella was thinking. And what’s more, Ella saw Marguerite as possessing the kind of glamour that must have been a pleasure to own. Marguerite had fiery red hair, lustrous green eyes and just a few orange freckles that adorned her splendid cheekbones. She featured quite voluptuous attributes as well, which Ella felt she herself was lacking. Plus, Marguerite lived much of her life in Kersley, which, in Ella’s opinion, smacked of character. Marguerite’s charms were not wasted on the residents of the Delaquix household. Frome often joked he would sell his left leg for a kiss from Marguerite, much to Marion’s mockery. But Marguerite seemed content to steal away into the nighttime air until the wee small hours of the morning with a farmer from the other side of Gwent, a widower named Louis. Though Marguerite was not yet forty, she was “settled” enough not to care if it was deemed appropriate or not for her to be so brazen in her pre-marital affections. She too had been married before, while in Kersley, with a man whose death elicited tears from no one. Least of all, Marguerite.

“Ah, bugger off. I am as privy as the next person to that dysfunctional wolf pack you call a family,” Marguerite sniped. “And why can’t I chime in my own contempt for a married man of two grown daughters who salivates openly about his own niece?”

The room fell still instantly. Ella felt her stomach turn and her eyes closed in a vain attempt to halt a memory that curdled her blood.

“Marguerite, how could you?!” Marion barked, not even waiting to take the cue from Ella’s apparent discomfort. Marion knew all too well the many occurrences of which Marguerite was speaking. Henry, the Baron of Armitage and Isolda’s husband, had fancied Ella’s good looks since she was a child. Before Ella had even made her first social appearance at the age of sixteen, her uncle Henry had made no secret of his admiration for her facial features, and eventually, her womanly physique. Henry had not been the only man to leer at Ella in such a way. She was accustomed to it, though it killed her soul to admit as much. Henry took care never to make such innuendos when Ella’s parents were present. He’d saved it for the weekly visits that Ella made to his home when she was a child. It was part of a friendship-forging operation by Thomas and Isolda for the three cousins, born only months apart. Ella, though never threatened to keep quiet, kept the not-so subtle comments and glances of her uncle to herself. Because he never touched her. She’d convinced herself that words were nothing more than fodder that was better left un-sparked. But years later, after Ella’s father had passed away, her uncle, after having one too many glasses of wine, made a salacious comment that might as well have been his filthy hands groping her skin. Ella’s mother had, somehow, not heard it. But Marion and Marguerite heard it, as did Aislinn and Bethany.

And Isolda.

“Oh, my goodness, Ella,” Marguerite cried, “forgive me! I can’t believe how careless I am. I should be flogged for my recklessness.”

“Rightly so,” Marion said, displeased but not enough that Marguerite needed to fear she was serious. Even if Marion had been serious, Marguerite never feared her.

“No, no, my friend,” Ella said, resting her hand on Marguerite’s shoulder, “don’t fret. It is a simple mistake and I am well over it, truly. I do believe, however, that you’re wrong about the ‘ducklings.’ Aislinn and Bethany are far from ugly. I know you say that because you think it makes me feel better.”

“I say it because it makes
me
feel better,” Marguerite declared.

“Be that as it may, it makes no difference how my cousins look,” Ella remarked. “But since we are on the subject, I will contend that both are very handsome by every definition of the word. Why, with the gowns and jewelry Aislinn wears, it’s no wonder so many seem determined to find a place for her in the royal family. Whenever that vacancy opens up, I suppose.” Marguerite was still kicking herself for her earlier faux pas, but Marion picked up on Ella’s effort to lighten the mood.

“Aislinn, I suppose,” Marion said, back to work now on Ella’s hair, “but Bethany? I am still debating on that one. She is so plain.”

“Aren’t they, you know, cut from the same cloth?” Marguerite asked in true curiosity. She’d only observed what most bystanders had upon meeting the twin sisters. They may have very well been the first identical twin sisters that wore a completely different face.

“If you mean twin sisters, Marguerite,” Ella said, “then you are right. But they are far from identical when you really get down to it. Aislinn is quite striking in her features, what with her soft brown hair and rich hazel eyes. Her skin is so well kept, I fear even a light breeze could damage it.”

“But Bethany…“Marion began. Ella interrupted.

“Bethany,” Ella said, emphasizing the name, “has a face that is delicate more than striking. Her hair is darker, but softer and less manipulated. Even with her youthful freckles, her face is quite lovely in the way it invites the gaze of the beholder as opposed to shaming it.”

“And let’s not forget,” Marion exclaimed, “that Bethany is, as God as my witness, the only potential for honest, Christian goodness in that whole hell bound family!” Marguerite was quick to sustain.

“Amen!”

Visiting the market was something that Marion had no qualms doing by herself. But Ella had loved to accompany her since she was a young child. She’d run up and down the rows of vendors and examine each item until she got the reddest of apples, or the fullest bag of grain. She’d argue with the vendors and fellow customers alike about how much an item was worth or the best way to get good use of it. Marion was, in the beginning, irritated by Ella’s antics. Not because she was embarrassed, but because she was efficient and the little girl was quite the dawdler.

“Try this, Marion,” Ella said, walking towards Marion holding some kind of fruit that Marion couldn’t identify, “I don’t know the last time I tasted something so unforgivably sweet.” Marion took a bite and quickly nodded in agreement. After so many years, she was not in any less of a hurry and Ella was no speedier.

“All right then, love, I’m moving on,” Marion said.

“Very well,” Ella said, fixated on something new. “I will catch up with you.” Marion departed and Ella continued staring at the spools of thread that adorned a small, round wooden table being held up by a barrel. There were more spools than she could count and each a color that Ella couldn’t imagine existed. How could there by so many different variants of the color blue? How could they each convey such different auras of light and possibility? She was hypnotized and thought of Marguerite. Marguerite would have loved this. In fact, Ella decided that Marguerite’s birthday would come early this year. But before she had a chance to summon the vendor, she was approached from behind.

“Ella,” the woman said, almost like a song, “how lovely to see you out and about this morning. Aren’t the concessions today just to die for?” Ella turned and greeted the woman known in Gwent as the Baroness Nicolla Delancelle. A striking woman with auburn hair, white skin, a pointy nose, robust shoulders and full breasts that she made no effort to conceal within her bodice.

“Indeed, Baroness,” Ella said, hoping if she declared her affection for and intention to purchase the items on the round table, she could escape an exchange that, she knew all to well, would bring pleasure to no one, “I have just been admiring these beautiful threads. Who could imagine there were so many colors?”

The baroness was grinning with her lips tightly compressed.

How entertaining she must find me
, Ella thought with annoyance.

“Truly,” the baroness said, her eyebrows rising, “they are quite…illustrious. But darling, if it is thread for gowns or tapestries you are looking for, I really must insist you accompany me to see my friend Marcus Devus, you know, the supplier that travels monthly from Drisbon, to assist you. His products have given way to my wardrobe’s new awakening and I threw every old item I used to own away.”

Ella tried to feign interest, but did not exert herself too much in the effort as her complete boredom would have made no difference to the baroness, who droned on.

“Your aunt informed me that you were looking to replace the worn out tapestries of your home many months ago. Don’t tell me you’ve waited this long and are going to pass up Marcus Devus being in Gwent this very day, are you?”

“Well, I will certainly visit with your friend today if I find the time, but I cannot promise anything. I am, however, grateful for your advice and deep concern for the care of my home. It is too kind of you.”

The baroness smiled again, this time with her right eyebrow raised. She could hardly conceal her dislike for someone who did not immediately comply with her instruction. She’d been trained to cloak her dislike in wanton charity, not hide it completely. That would defeat the purpose. “Remember, child,” she said with a chill accompanying her voice, “one must place as much care in the presentation of her living quarters as she does in the presentation of her person. That is where the true discipline of self-preservation lies. One can be born with a pretty face, but it will only be the ventures rooted in tradition and propriety that bring about the respect of her peers.”

Ella knew the end was nigh and she could hardly wait. Baroness Nicolle Delancelle would always go out on high note. And Ella felt confident that the baroness could screech no louder that day.

It was then Ella felt the hot breath on her neck and she about fell to the ground and kissed Nicolla’s feet not to go. But it was too late. Ella knew there was only one man who loved sneaking up on her in such a way. The baroness’s face lit up and she squealed with delight at his presence.

“Captain Thurlow! How glorious it is that you are mingling with us commoners this morning.”

Ella felt the vibration of his laughter against her skin and she shuttered.

“If you’ll excuse me, Baroness,” Ella said, bowing quickly, “I really must be moving on.”

“Nonsense,” the captain proclaimed, stepping forward and placing his hand flat on Ella’s back as if he were greeting an old friend. “I don’t want to interrupt you two. Please, continue on. When I come to the market, I come to learn.”

Ella tipped her head up and looked at the man who had her skin crawling: Captain Wilhelm Thurlow DeGent, the high commander of Gwent’s army. He was very tall with dark brown hair that curled just at the ends and a mustache that was long but still did not cover his upper lip. His chest was wide and ceased to narrow at his waist and his arms were thick even beneath the loose sleeves of his military garb. His voice was deep, heavy, and his laughter made Ella think of wind striking metal.

“Oh we are finished,” the baroness said, still hamming up each and every word like it was for sale. “You two carry on.”

“No, I insist, it is I who must go!” Ella stated emphatically, but not soon enough to prevent the baroness from vanishing into the crowd as seamlessly as she had emerged from it. Ella was alone to stave off the nausea of both fear and disdain for a man who fed off of all disdain and took pleasure in fear.

“I was not lying,” Ella said, moving away as rapidly as she could to get his hand off her body, “I must go, if you don’t mind.” He stepped into her path, not too close but a sure obstacle to her escape.

“Don’t be silly,” he said, a wide grin displaying his perfectly straight, white teeth. “I was just noticing your interest in those spools of thread there. They are quite stunning. Please, allow me to buy one for you as a gift.”

“That won’t be necessary,” Ella said as she maneuvered away from him a second time. She scanned her surroundings and eyed another perpendicular street that had only a few vendors. She walked toward it, wishing the street had been brimming with busyness and commotion. Nevertheless, she intended to keep moving.

He would not have harmed her.

Thurlow was too smart to risk his heroic tenure with the inhabitants of Gwent by committing any criminal act against her, and, she cringed when reminding herself, he took pride in his ability to protect her from anything that
would
bring her detriment.